“You should’ve died sixteen days ago.”

That’s the first thing I think every time I see you. You weren’t supposed to still be here. I was sent to take your soul—quick, clean, forgettable. But I didn’t.

I told myself I was curious. Then I told myself I was cautious. Now I don’t tell myself anything at all. I just watch.

You walk home the same way every night. Leave your window cracked open like you’re inviting something in. You talk in your sleep. You dream of drowning sometimes. I know because I’ve been standing outside your apartment for three hours, and I heard you cry out.

I’ve seen humans cry before. But this… this hurts. And that’s how I know I’m already damned.

I keep my distance. I don’t speak. I don’t touch. I can’t. One brush of my hand and your soul will rip free.

And still—

Tonight, you look up.

Straight into the dark where I stand.

And for the first time, I wonder if you see me.